


The Rescue & The Escape

by EmilyKellen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Scandal In Belgravia, F/M, POV Irene Adler, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:04:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilyKellen/pseuds/EmilyKellen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She pressed the send button, and her heart felt somehow lighter. Hopefully he'd see it and forgive her, though she knew he was not the forgiving type. Resigned to her fate, Irene closed her eyes and prayed the blade was sharp."</p><p>An exploration of the complicated relationship between Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes, as told from her perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Have you ever had anyone?"

Irene watched carefully for his reaction. She knew the answer to the question, of course. Sherlock Holmes was a man who thrived on experimentation and experiences; even if the idea of a relationship bored him, he would have at least indulged in the pleasures of the flesh enough to understand it.

But the answer wasn't the reason she asked the question. She wanted to see the reaction.

Sherlock Holmes was a master of his emotions. Most people assumed he didn't have them because they weren't the same emotions "normal" people had. But they were there, underneath, and he had remarkable control over them. He'd lost that control ever so slightly during their first meeting, but she needed more information to come to a conclusion, and she liked her experiments, too.

So when his eyes twitched slightly, and presented a vaguely puzzled look, she knew she'd had an effect on him. She figured this was her chance. Irene Adler had not exactly hidden her interest in him. He would have assumed it was part of the game, and it was. But it was more than that, too. 

He was intriguing, intelligent, and had a voice that sounded like dark velvet. She was sure he knew the effect he could have with these qualities, if he so desired, and he confirmed it when he dropped his voice, his speech slowed, and his eyes darkened. With just about anyone else, Irene would assume he was aroused, but with Sherlock she didn't know. She was hoping that at least part of him would want this, want her.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night... Would you have dinner with me?" Her question hung in the air, and for a moment Irene was sure she could see the tension straining between them. The rest of the world melted away as his eyes bore into hers.

The moment ended too soon when Mrs. Hudson's shrill voice rang out from downstairs. Irene moved away quickly and only then did she realize how much she'd wanted the rest of that moment. Her blood ran hot as a shiver ran through her. 

It had been a long time since Irene had truly felt the thrill of attraction and the chase. Especially with a man. Men were easy to seduce and not at all a challenge. Women presented a bit more of a challenge, but not much. Irene knew all the buttons; knew the exact expressions, words, and body language to use to win over anyone, and she did. Sherlock, however, was not anyone.

***

Irene kneeled on the hard, dirty concrete of the warehouse floor. A part of her was almost relieved this would all be over soon; she'd been beyond exhausted for weeks now, and no longer had the energy or desire to keep fighting. They had allowed her to send one final message, and as she typed out "Goodbye Mr Holmes," she realized she had one regret.

After he had uncovered the secret of her phone (and ultimately her heart), she realized she'd destroyed any chance of ever getting close to him again. Had she seriously thought at some point that even if she hadn't been exposed, they would just end up laughing it off? Clearly sentiment had destroyed her ability to think logically when it came to him.

If she could've done it over again, she wouldn't have pushed him away. Maybe then she wouldn't be sitting in an abandoned Karachi warehouse with a scimitar pressed to the back of her neck.

She pressed the send button, and her heart felt somehow lighter. Hopefully he'd see it and forgive her, though she knew he was not the forgiving type. Resigned to her fate, Irene closed her eyes and prayed the blade was sharp.

"Aaahh!!"

Irene recognized the sound immediately, but could not be sure whether or not it was her imagination. Her eyes opened slowly and she realized it was real. She allowed herself to hope as she looked towards the voice. Her eyes met his, pale and bright and intense, and something in her stomach lurched.

"When I say run, run!" His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it reverberated through her core. In the split second between her salacious text alert and his statement the rest of her execution party realized what was going on. Sherlock spun around, sword held high.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She felt his eyes on her and realized she'd been staring; watching tiny droplets of sweat bead down from his temple to blot the blood drying on his cheekbone. Her eyes met his in the rearview mirror."
> 
> Part two, taking place after the events of A Scandal in Belgravia.

The next hour was a blur in Irene's mind, and all she could remember was the smell of dirt, sweat and blood, and Sherlock yelling out for her to run.

She ran as far as she could go, fuelled solely by adrenalin in the wake of her stay of execution. She collapsed a few kilometres away, breathless and weak. She managed to pull herself into the space between two buildings and hoped that Sherlock's intervention extended beyond just saving her from execution.

The sound of a vehicle approaching sent a fresh wave of adrenalin coursing through Irene's system. There was nowhere to run without drawing more attention to herself, so she bundled herself up as tightly as possible and pulled her hijab across her face. She crouched in the dusty alley as the vehicle got closer and in her hyper-alert state, she realized it was slowing down. 

Irene was frozen in place as the vehicle stopped. A door slammed shut and she felt herself shake as footsteps approached. 

"Get up." Sherlock's voice was full and resonant, and the simple command broke Irene from her paralysis. She scrambled to her feet as Sherlock strode back to the car. She followed clumsily and climbed into the back seat of what she recognized in passing as the truck that brought her to the warehouse in the first place. It smelled vaguely of sweat and blood, though she realized that could easily have been Sherlock as well. 

They didn't speak as the truck tumbled along past the city and into the countryside. Irene felt her heartbeat slow and her breathing steady, and so she allowed herself to fully comprehend her current situation.

Sherlock was still in his terrorist disguise, though he'd pulled his shemagh from his face, which was also the only part of him she could see that was not speckled with blood. Irene could see the hilt of his sword and assumed he'd tossed it onto the floor of the passenger side after he'd acquired the truck. He was focused on the road ahead, and Irene was oddly comforted by his steadfast intensity.

She felt his eyes on her and realized she'd been staring; watching tiny droplets of sweat bead down from his temple to blot the blood drying on his cheekbone. Her eyes met his in the rearview mirror.

"You should sleep, if you can. We'll be driving for a while yet," he said, turning his attention away from her after a few moments.

"Where are we going?" She asked in reply.

"Does that matter?"

"No, I suppose not." 

With that admission, exhaustion finally caught up with Irene. She stretched out over the bench seat she was on and closed her eyes. As she drifted out of consciousness, she managed to breathe out a quiet "thank you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Irene decided to keep the rest of her questions burning in her mind to herself for the time being. Sherlock was cranky, most likely from exhaustion, but likely also because of the inconvenience of having to come halfway around the world to save her. She decided instead to busy herself with brushing off the dust from her clothes and attempting to regain some dignity in her appearance."
> 
> Part three.

Irene awoke to the sound of the door slamming shut. It was mid-morning by her estimation and she was painfully aware of how little she'd eaten in the past few days. She sat up and watched as Sherlock refuelled the car at a primitive-looking station in the middle of the desert. His eyes darted about, constantly observing, with the rest of his face once again covered. 

He returned to the car quickly after darting into the small shack that stood beside the pumps. Despite her hunger, Irene felt more like herself than she had in weeks, and felt she was now owed some answers.

"Ah, you're awake. Good," he said as the truck revved back to life. He reached over to pass her a canvas bag from the front seat. "You've lost weight, hardly a surprise given the circumstances. You should eat, if you can."

Irene looked in the bag and found a modest assortment of bread and fruit. She ripped the end off the loaf of bread and discovered it was surprisingly fresh. She bit into it greedily, her eyes falling shut as she savoured the taste of the sun-warmed loaf. When she opened her eyes again, she noticed Sherlock watching her from the rearview mirror again. This brought her back to her senses.

"Where are we?" She asked, her voice stronger than she'd assumed it would be.

"Couple of hours south of Quetta. We'll be stopping there. Need to change clothes and vehicles. Could probably wash some of this blood off as well," he replied with a subtle scoff at the last statement. It was more information than Irene was expecting, and interrupted the flow of questions in her head.

"Where are we going?"

"The UN in Kandahar."

"Why?" 

He rolled his eyes. "Try to think, Miss Adler. We're in a highly volatile part of the world and in a few hours, if not already, the entirety of the terrorist organization for whom you were to be a sacrifice will be coming after you. It will be much harder for them to reach you the sooner we leave this place." She ignored his derisive statement in favour of putting the pieces together in her head. 

"Where are we going to from Kandahar?"

"I, Miss Adler, am going back to London. Where you go is entirely up to you and not at all my concern." Their eyes met in the rearview again and she was surprised to find them cold and hard, so unlike the ones that flashed in her memory from that night at his flat. She was right, then; he hadn't forgiven her for the attempted blackmail.

Irene decided to keep the rest of her questions burning in her mind to herself for the time being. Sherlock was cranky, most likely from exhaustion, but likely also because of the inconvenience of having to come halfway around the world to save her. She decided instead to busy herself with brushing off the dust from her clothes and attempting to regain some dignity in her appearance. She dug through the bag and picked out random fruits, grateful for the liquid and the sweetness. Sherlock seemed to have noticed her thirst and passed a canteen back to her, from which she drank deeply.

***

They reached Quetta in silence and Irene was grateful for the signs of civilization.

Sherlock made his way through the city without hesitation, and pulled into a parking lot of a small restaurant. After parking, he pulled the shemagh up over his face and motioned for her to do the same. Sherlock looked around quickly before exiting the vehicle, and opened the backseat door for Irene. Grasping her hand roughly, he all but dragged her along the alleyway until they reached an utterly nondescript motel five blocks north and six blocks west of where they'd left the truck. 

Sherlock pulled a key from somewhere in his clothing and unlocked the door of a room hidden from direct sight under a set of stairs. The blinds were drawn, and Irene's eyes struggled to adjust after the harsh desert sunlight. Sherlock tossed the sack he carried onto the mouldy bed and paced.

"There's a shower through there, and clothes in there," he said, motioning absently toward the sack. "Go get cleaned up, and do hurry."

Irene moved towards the bed and dumped the contents of the sack onto the bed. In the resulting pile, she pulled out two sets of clothes: light-coloured slacks and simple white shirt for him, white linen pants and a brown tunic for her, as well as a coordinating scarf to wrap into a hijab. She was pleasantly surprised at how decently fashionable the clothes were, though she dumbly remembered that part of the art of deception is not to draw attention to yourself, and these outfits were perfectly average from what she'd seen of the local population as they'd driven through the city.

Irene gathered up the clothes and started for the bathroom before a wave of cheekiness came over her. She spun around and faced Sherlock, who was sitting in one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs, hands steepled under his nose, eyes fixed somewhere in the unseen distance.

"Would you like to join me? It would be quicker, you know," she teased. He looked up at her with such a withering glare that Irene couldn't help but laugh as she turned back for the small bathroom.


End file.
